In the Long Run

Scheduling was no problem when we had three functioning vehicles to use between the three of us at home. We all managed our own appointments easily without worrying too much about the others’ commitments, other than to try to arrange a common meal time.

Then a monkey wrench, in the form of a transmission problem with Big Guy’s truck, was thrown into our once smoothly operating system. Suddenly we were in transportation turmoil, trying to juggle two cars between three people.

Work, school, play practice, church meetings, Honor Society, piano lessons, lunch dates, band rehearsals and performances, court hearings, pickleball league games—really, who could say who should have top priority?! I was the master scheduler, trying to insure everyone had some kind of transportation to their activities. We all had to sacrifice some of our taken-for-granted convenience. (Mine came the day I found myself running to work on snow-packed, icy roads while toting a 20-pound backpack.)

We were all relieved when the truck was repaired. But we found ourselves back in vehicle haplessness the next morning, when the truck refused to start, and could not be coaxed with a battery jump either. Additional days without the truck seemed unthinkable, so my husband and I decided to immediately tow the truck back to the repair shop, and hope for a quick fix.

My husband gave me instructions. “You steer the truck while I push it from the driveway into the street. But don’t put the brake on, because you’ll need the momentum to turn the wheel, to get the truck facing the right way.”

“Gotcha,” I said sweetly, grateful that he was the one who would be pushing instead of me. He grunted as he gave the truck a mighty push. It rolled back out of the driveway and into the street. I tried to turn the wheel, and nothing happened. I cranked harder—still nothing. My husband was still pushing, and the truck was heading straight up into the neighbors’ front yard across the street. I braked despite his instructions.

He came to the window. “Why didn’t you turn?” “I couldn’t,” I whined. “The steering wheel absolutely would not turn.” “Did you turn the key on?” he asked, a little condescendingly. Sorry. I didn’t think of that. I’m not too mechanically-minded.

“All right,” he said patiently. “Is it still in neutral? Good. Now, put the clutch in, and I’m going to push you forward, and this time, crank it hard to the right.” He began pushing. And pushing. The truck was not moving. He came back to the door and reached in for the parking brake. “I already took that off,” I said indignantly. Then he looked down incredulously to where my right foot was. “Did you have your foot on the brake?!” Guilty!! My husband fingered a lock of my hair. “What color is this?!” he teased.

After that inauspicious beginning, we became a finely tuned towing team. I drove the towing car, and my husband steered the truck (with the key turned on.) We carefully crawled along, making sure the towing strap had neither too little, nor too much slack. My husband meticulously performed hand signals to alert other drivers of his intent to turn or stop. One social woman, chatting on her cell phone, obviously didn’t recognize that his arm was out the window to signal a right turn. She cheerily waved right back at him.

We made it to the repair shop without any problems. But there is a problem with the mechanic. He says his first open appointment is in a month, but that he’ll try to squeeze in some time now and then between other appointments to take a look at it before then. Hmmm.

So the scheduling nightmare recommences. What should have vehicle priority on Monday—the eye appointment, the fitness assessment, or the job interview? Maybe I better put on my running shoes.

I really wasn’t trying to prank, or punish my son, or impress upon him the importance of punctuality, although of course I do believe it is an admirable trait. Let me explain.

Big Guy attends an early morning Seminary class each weekday at our church. For a teenager, 6:30 AM is an intolerable start time, and my son sleeps in until the last possible moment. His dad and I often roust him out of bed to encourage him to get to his meeting on time. Then he basically rolls out of bed, pulls on some shoes and a jacket, and drives to the church half-asleep.

A couple of mornings ago, I awoke before my alarm sounded, and couldn’t fall back asleep. 6:05, the clock said. When it was 6:20, and I hadn’t heard Big Guy stirring, I went downstairs and awakened him. “Hey guy, time to get going.” I thought I was pleasant and not too dictatorial. Indeed, Big Guy got up, and left, and I headed back to bed for a few minutes.

I had just dozed off when I heard the downstairs door from the garage shut, and someone scuffling about. I wondered what Big Guy had forgotten. When I didn’t hear him leave again, I went downstairs to check on him.

He was back in bed with the covers over his head. “Why are you in bed?!” I asked, bewildered. “It’s 5:30!” he answered. “What? 5:30? What do you mean?” I pressed, still confused. Big Guy is not a man of many words. He just repeated, “It’s FIVE-thirty.”

I confess that I giggled a little when I realized I had awakened him an hour early. Somehow my bedside clock had been off. “Did you get all the way to the church?” I quizzed, trying to suppress my amusement. “Yes!” Now that response approached a warning growl. I apologized sincerely, and left the room so he could go back to sleep.

And that was it. Big Guy did not rant or rave. He did not accuse me of being a terrible parent. And I never feared his launching into anything akin to “elder abuse”! Perhaps sleep was a greater motivator, and he was just too tired to put up a fuss. But I entertain the thought, with pride and satisfaction, that just maybe he was showing the maturity of a teenager making that delicate transition into adulthood.

I locked the front door as I left my house about 20 minutes before I was due to be at work to teach a Pilates class. It was overcast, with a chilly breeze, and a temperature of about 6 degrees. Outside the garage, I punched in the code on the keypad to automatically open the door. Nothing happened. I tried again, and the door didn’t move. Even as I futilely pressed the other door’s code, I knew what was wrong. Oh no! It’s too cold, and the automatic opener won’t work. I remember this happening once before.

I ran back to the front door of the house, knowing full well that I had locked it, but I had to test it anyway. And I can’t use my door key either! I felt a little panicked as I recalled that about a week previous my front door knob had inexplicably ceased to work with my housekey. I was locked out.

My situation only worsened when I realized that my cell phone was in my purse, which I had left in the car earlier in the afternoon. I couldn’t call my husband for help, or even call to work to let them know I’d be late. I thought furiously for a solution. Does Chere (my friend around the block) have a key? No use, the doorknob isn’t working with a key anyway. Can she give me a ride? No, she’s not even home from work yet!..... Well, maybe I could run to work. No, I’m not dressed for that.

Just then, my neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Bad-Dogs, drove up into their driveway next door. I didn’t want to face the awful truth. Horrors! I’m going to have to ask them for help! Time is slipping away! I’ve said and thought some pretty mean things about my neighbors. Well, really more so about their dogs, but my negative feelings have tended to include them at times as well.

“Hi!” I called to them with false cheerfulness. “I’m locked out of my house, and I’ve got to be at work in a few minutes. Do you think I could use your phone?” This is so humbling…no, it’s downright humiliating!

Mrs. Bad-Dogs stared at me as though I were crazy, and for a long time, before she answered, “Uh, yeah…sure.” Then she and her husband turned, and walked into their house before I could wade over to them through the 2-foot snowdrifts separating our yards.

When I got to the front of their house, I could see through the storm door that the front door was ajar, and that one of the hounds from Hell, Randall, was in the entryway. He immediately began snarling and barking when he saw me. I hesitated, and Mrs. Bad-Dogs, who was already up the stairs from the front door landing, called down to me impatiently, “Just come in! Randall, be quiet.”

I am a dependable employee, and I knew people were counting on me to teach my class, so I tentatively sidled up the stairs past the rapacious Randall. I apologized, and explained my situation again. “I’m so sorry to intrude, but may I use your phone to call for a ride? I need to be at the Y in just a few minutes.” There’s no way I’m going to beg them for a ride, but I’m not too proud to accept one if they offer…

I guess I expected a sympathetic look, or words, but again, Mrs. Bad-Dogs just stared at me, and paused. Why is she looking at me like that? Is my request so outrageous? Does she know I badmouth her dogs, and hate me for it?! Come on, lady, I just want to get to work! Finally she pointed and curtly said, “The phone’s right there.”

I called my friend Marcia, who readily agreed to take me to work. I quickly thanked my neighbor for letting me use her phone, and as I ran down the stairs and out of the house, I think I heard her mutter an insincere “No problem.”

Later that evening, I thought about the incident, and mused on what I would have done if the tables had been turned, and Mrs. Bad-Dogs had come to me for help. I do think I would have offered her a ride, and I was a little miffed and resentful that she didn’t do that for me. I guess I’m like a dog that bites the hand that feeds it.

My husband is quite possibly the biggest fan of It’s a Wonderful Life, the Christmas classic starring Jimmy Stewart. I groan when he insists on watching it every year, and most years he watches it alone. This last Christmas though, I humored him, and said I’d watch it with him, except for the part when Uncle Billy loses the money—that scene is too wrenching. In another scene, George Bailey and his future wife, Mary, are flirtatiously tiptoeing around an inevitable embrace. A man on a nearby porch gets fed up with their dilatory dalliance, and disgustedly pronounces that “youth is wasted on the wrong people.”

Here, here! Do young people realize what an incredible time they are at in their lives? Do they gratefully acknowledge the good health, vitality, and energy they possess? Do they appreciate the myriad exciting choices and splendid opportunities that are within their grasp? Do they possess an enthusiasm verging on euphoria, of “the sky’s the limit, and anything’s possible!”? Is this what today’s youth is thinking about?

Unfortunately some of them are dismally and dourly thinking about death. At least, that’s my conclusion after my experience last month as a judge for a high school speech competition. Granted, I was judging a Drama event, and I suppose that genre encourages the students toward interpreting tragic and theatrical pieces. But even so, I was mortified to discover that in the round I judged, all six of the presentations dealt with death.

I listened to a bleak story of a young soldier dying in Iraq, another about a single woman coping with the emotional upheaval after her abortion, and then a disturbing piece rampant with the ranting and raving of a 1920’s flapper in a sanatorium after her husband’s suicide attempt.

The second half of the round was equally lacking in joie de vivre. I was further depressed by a selection about a teenage girl’s resentment at the death of her mother, the troubling tale of a young child who drowned in a swamp, and perhaps the most upsetting of all, the vivid and horrifying description of a Muslim girl being burned alive by her brother because of perceived shame to the family. It was seriously oppressive.

Perhaps it was because of that dreary competition that I was willing to watch the heartwarming Capra movie. It is true that in this movie, George plans a “benevolent” suicide that will save his family, but in the end, he realizes the folly of such action, and rejoices in life’s good things—his health, his family, his friends, his faith. And those blessings are what make it, at any age, a wonderful life.

All right, so it is another one of those silly questionaires. Take it anyway, just for fun, and then add your results as a comment. I'm interested to learn what superhero you are!

I was amused at my results, which are listed below. I mean, my highest percentage of superhero characteristics wasn't even female! (But I am over half Wonder Woman...booyah!)

Click here to take the "Which Superhero am I?" quiz...

Cyppy's Results:



You are The Flash

The Flash 85% Spider-Man 60% Wonder Woman 58% Supergirl 58% Green Lantern 55% Superman 55% Robin 45% Iron Man 45% Hulk 30% Catwoman 20% Batman 10%

Fast, athletic and flirtatious.